


Maskless Masquerade

by kokichiouma



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Phantom Thief/Detective AU, Vigilante AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 11:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20545046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokichiouma/pseuds/kokichiouma
Summary: Saihara tries to discover the identity of a mysterious vigilante whose name and motives just don't quite add up. Then again, nothing about Saihara adds up in Ouma's opinion, either.





	Maskless Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> It's not a new chapter of Reaching, but I did manage to write a gift for Saihara's birthday, too! This was actually written for the Saihara birthday prompt on the Oumasai Events twitter (@oumasaiweek); the prompt was to "give back to the community" by making fic out of your favorite fanart, or vice-versa.
> 
> I chose my wonderful wife's fanart of an ongoing saiouma vigilante AU we've had. Check out the piece here: https://twitter.com/310v3/status/1009876152419266560
> 
> Oh, and the "mutual pining" tag is there because... well, that's basically what trying to unravel someone's secret identity really is in these circumstances, lmao.

Saihara Shuuichi wasn’t much for charity functions.

That sounded horrible—what kind of heartless human being didn’t want to donate to charity, for crying out loud? But it wasn’t really the idea of donating that made them so off-putting to him. In fact, he’d gladly donate to three or four different charities at once if it would get him out of attending this single function.

However… he wasn’t really left with much of a choice.

He sighs and fiddles awkwardly with his tie-pin in front of the mirror for what feels like the hundredth time that afternoon. No matter how many times he readjusts it, his tie just doesn’t seem to hang straight, always shifting just a bit too far to the right or the left. His attempts to smooth down his hair leave him equally frustrated, with at least one strand always sticking up somehow no matter how much gel he applied, looking conspicuous and out-of-place: both of which were things Saihara very much hated to be.

Perhaps he should’ve been used to this, by now. His life was, by most people’s standards, extremely fortunate. Wealthy parents, extravagant luncheons, high-society charity functions… he vaguely remembered attending all of these things in a blur of boredom, anxiety, and the childlike confusion that entailed being shuffled along from one place to the next without ever quite understanding why.

But wealthy parents weren’t necessarily loving or caring parents, as he’d learned with time. They’d never been the sort to spare him a sliver of genuine affection when he was a child, no matter how obedient or docile he’d been. The most he could hope for back then was to be shown off, a studious and intelligent trophy for them to brag about. A truly nasty way to treat a child.

Nausea bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t know whether that nausea is coming from these memories, or just the sheer anxiety of having to attend an event he doesn’t want to go to in the first place.

As he looks back up into the mirror (back at those too-dark circles hanging beneath his eyes, the crookedness of his tie, and that same, stubborn strand jutting out from the rest of his hair), he can’t help but feel as though he’s fighting a losing battle.

Maybe he’ll just save himself the trouble and wear a hat to tonight’s function.

\---

By the time he gave up on fixing his tie or his hair, put on a hat, and finally, reluctantly headed for the function, it was already starting to grow dark, the skyline tinged with fading orange that grew more purple by the second as the lights of the city came to life all around him.

As late afternoon gradually became evening, he finally reached his destination: a high-rise apartment building sprawled in the middle of downtown, luxurious and faintly sparkling with warm light that spilled from a ground-floor lobby that could’ve easily fit the entirety of his small apartment, with room to spare.

He’s already been there for about five minutes… but Saihara still sits in his car, looking for reasons to not go inside.

It was rare that he took his car anywhere—it was a rusty, old thing, and the cost of keeping the gas tank full arguably ate more of his paycheck than the rest of his bills put together. The car wasn’t anything his parents would choose to buy, let alone be seen on the same street with. But when he had decided to start living with his uncle, back during his teenaged years, he had made the simultaneous decision to part ways with his parents’ wealth and began living more modestly. And with his own expenses to pay now in his early adulthood, “modestly” had given way to “frugally.”

Normally he took public transit whenever he could; it was a far cheaper alternative, and as much as he hated crowds, he had lived all his life accustomed to the noises and bustle of the city. If anything, he rather liked the anonymity offered by a crowded subway platform, and the fact that no one was likely to ever throw him a second glance. But it didn’t seem right, somehow, taking public transportation to a fancy charity event like this one. And low-risk or not, he still hadn’t wanted to risk anyone else on the train overseeing his files, either.

Not that the papers in his lap were what one might call, “official police files.” No, he wasn’t nearly ballsy enough to risk sneaking police evidence home with him without permission. But over the last few weeks, whenever he was at work, he _had_ surreptitiously written a summary of what little information was in those official files—and he had then combined that handwritten copy with his own theories and observations to compile a set of files on the individual known as the city’s “Phantom Thief.”

Not for the first time, the corners of Saihara’s mouth turn downward as he reads the name silently to himself. It just didn’t make any _sense_. For a cat-burglar or a wannabe-museum-thief, then sure, the name wouldn’t seem so out of place. But he just can’t understand why a vigilante crime-fighter would call themself that.

Well… actually, they hadn’t gone by that name at first. At least, not as far as he could tell, going back through all of the earliest official records and reports that he could find. Initially, almost every statement taken from the criminals turned in by the mysterious, so-called Phantom Thief, or from innocent bystanders lucky (or unlucky) enough to witness the altercations, had reported that they supposedly referred to themself as a “Supreme Leader.” Whatever the hell _that_ meant.

The phrase only conjured up an image even more illicit than the criminals their mystery vigilante dropped off at the doorstep of police headquarters, but Saihara was hard-pressed to figure out what kind of a criminal would beat up their own kind without shedding any blood, only to turn them over to the police. And if they _did_ steal anything during the course of these altercations, then it wasn’t from the criminals in question, or the near-victims of those crimes.

Saihara stops reading and leans back with a sigh, bumping his head lightly against the aged and fraying headrest of his seat. Maybe the only reason everyone had started calling this person the Phantom Thief was because they were stealing cases left and right from the police. Nothing had quite tanked the public’s faith in the police’s ability to maintain peace and order like a civilian (a two-bit vigilante in a gaudy outfit, at that) doing their job better than they could.

He isn’t sure what was worse—the fact that the Phantom Thief still hadn’t been apprehended in the last three months, or the fact that he almost found himself wishing they would keep going. Maybe everything really would be for the best if he just let them solve crimes and handle cases instead.

…Perhaps the public fervor was finally getting to him. Maybe that was why, instead of relying on his fellow officers to apprehend the vigilante in question, he’d started up his own private investigation. For all that he’d been an officer on the force for more than two years now, he still found himself falling back on old habits, relying on the P.I. knowledge his uncle had ingrained in him when he was younger.

He can’t deny it to himself any longer: he wants to find the Phantom Thief before the rest of the police do. Countless hours poring over his handwritten notes and blurry photographs had brought him here tonight, all in search of answers he felt he was just on the verge of reaching.

_Why_ did he want to know, though? And even if his theory turned out to be correct, what would he do then? …Those questions were a little harder to answer. And none of the answers that did come to mind made him particularly happy, so Saihara tried his best to keep ignoring them.

He flips through the handwritten files one more time for good measure, trying desperately to ignore the wristwatch on his left wrist that tells him the charity function is about to start soon. As he does so, his eyes linger on another blurry photograph—not a copy from the police’s records, this time, but one of the few photos he’d managed to find in the course of his own investigation.

He’d requested it from a corner convenience store which had been directly across one of the alleyways where the vigilante had “interfered” with (see: stopped) a crime in progress. The police had searched the alleyway from top to bottom, but had been unable to turn up any new clues. And the one video camera which had been positioned above a traffic signal light near the alley had turned out to be a bust, having been out-of-order for the last few months.

The video camera outside the convenience store had worked just fine, though. Saihara had noticed the well-kept, 24-hour convenience store even on his first visit to the crime scene, but had kept quiet about it until he’d been able to come back on his own later. He’d mumbled something about a follow-up investigation for the commotion that had taken place in the alleyway nearby, and hoped the manager hadn’t found him too suspicious as he’d flashed his badge and requested access to any photos that their camera might’ve been able to take around the time of the crime.

Despite himself, though, he hadn’t really expected anything to turn up. No matter what his instincts said, this was clearly a lead that even the police hadn’t thought was worth looking into. The chances of him finding some overlooked clue that would somehow turn the case around, all by himself, were astronomically low.

…But then, they’d actually given him the photo. At first glance, it hadn’t seemed like much, blurry and monochrome as it was—there was only so much you could expect from the quality of convenience store footage. Still, it definitely showed a car speeding past the store, just after the altercation in the alleyway had supposedly taken place. Just a little before the Phantom Thief had dropped off the latest criminal at the police’s doorstep, like some nice and neatly wrapped package from the post office.

And in the driver’s seat of that car, blurry though the picture may have been… was the visage of someone he was almost definitely sure he’d seen before.

There were almost no other photos of the Phantom Thief to compare it to; they were, after all, a _masked_ vigilante. But Saihara had to wonder if they’d taken off the mask for just a moment in the car, sure of their victory and their safety.

He really was _very _sure he’d seen that smug, ear-to-ear grin before. As recently as Monday morning’s news, in fact...

Saihara comes back to his senses gradually—and by now, the sun is almost completely sunk behind the horizon, the skyline a deep, vibrant blue with only a few vestiges left of faded oranges and reds. When he checks his watch, he grimaces at the realization that the function already started. About ten minutes ago, in fact.

Coming in late sounds even less appealing than having to attend in the first place, but he doesn’t really have much of a choice. Maybe if he enters quietly enough, no one else will pay him any mind while the speeches and proceedings are going on.

He sighs one last time for good measure, tucks his files under the driver’s seat carefully, and exits the car, wondering just how many comic books Ouma Kokichi must have read in his lifetime to take up a life of philanthropist-by-day, crime-fighting vigilante-by-night.

* * *

What a bunch of suckers.

That’s all Ouma thinks as he flits between various guests, exchanging “hi, how are you this evening”s and “it’s so good to see you again”s with ease. The replies he receives in turn are unexciting, predictable—but he still feigns interest in them as he smiles, shakes hands, and moves on to deal with the next snob that catches his eye.

For once, he’s not planning a heist. He’s not interested in stealing anything from these people, despite the abundance of jewelry and fancy wristwatches that would be easy pickings. There’s no particular reason to make fun of them all right now… but rich people were _always_ suckers, as far as he was concerned.

It might seem a little strange to say, now that he was technically one of them. For most of his life he’d been just about penniless; being catapulted into a world of extreme wealth and status in the last few months was a little overwhelming. Even for someone like him, who tended to land quick on his feet, no matter the circumstances.

Not that the money he had access to was his own, exactly, but he _was_ being publicly funded by Togami Byakuya, which automatically made him part of the elite by association.

The tabloids had gone wild with that particular juicy bit of information, back when he and Togami-chan had first been seen in public together, and he’d let them, since it kept them off his back in other regards. It was better if they thought he was some brainless, shallow gold-digger than if they figured out the truth: that he spent his nights wearing costumes, beating up thugs, and leading the police around by the nose. It was just one of the many lies that he happened to find preferable to the truth.

Togami-chan’s justification for their little façade was always some boring excuse about “keeping up public appearances,” though the public’s perception of them was hardly what Ouma would call _positive_. However, he supposed it was true that this gave them an excuse to associate in public without looking too suspicious.

At least this little financial arrangement was mutually beneficial, if nothing else: Togami-chan kept him well-funded, and he kept Togami-chan from having to rely on a police force that could barely find their way out of a paper bag, especially for matters which required a certain level of… discretion. The man certainly paid well—it was a shame about the giant stick up his ass when it came to more lighthearted matters, though.

But sadly, if he wanted to _keep_ being paid and supplied with gadgets and toys for his little nighttime endeavors, he also had to attend less savory daytime endeavors. Like this charity function.

The event hasn’t even started yet, but he’s already tired of the pre-function trivialities, like socializing, gossiping, and stuffing himself full on bite-sized appetizers from the various trays being catered around the room. It’s not even that social interaction is particularly draining for him—but these people are all so _boring_. They’re all so infuriatingly dull and vapid and predictable, he can’t stand it.

Still, as tempted as he is to sigh, Ouma just smiles a little wider as he listens to the latest guest (whose name he already forgot) prattle on about some business venture he has absolutely no interest in. As a caterer walks past him, he snatches another glass of champagne off their tray, spilling half of the contents into his nameless guest’s glass as though already tipsy and eager to share.

Ugh. If _only _he could actually afford to get drunk at a function like this. At least the alcohol might liven things up a little.

Unfortunately, he’s still stone-cold sober as the evening wears on and the guests bore him senseless with their stupid, meaningless questions. It’s a relief when the sun on the other side of the floor-length windows finally starts to sink beyond the horizon, and he can stop playing along.

He gives the man nearest to him another too-wide, plastered-on smile, and walks to the makeshift stage at the far edge of the ballroom. Togami-chan doesn’t join him—despite the fact that this event was being hosted by the Togami family, people-pleasing and rambling, aimless introductions weren’t exactly Togami-chan’s forte. Which just left Ouma himself to play the role of host.

“Welcome, wel—hey! Is this thing on?” He taps the microphone lightly with a practiced motion, pretending to struggle with it. “Is it—oops! I guess you can all hear me now, right?” He chuckles and takes the microphone into his hand, segueing effortlessly into his pre-planned speech about the Togami corporation, environmental awareness, and all the ways in which these people’s money could make a difference.

…All of which were lies, of course. Well, it wasn’t exactly a _lie_ that they could make a difference, but he knew they weren’t going to. There were a whole number of problems rich people could solve in the world just by throwing money at them, but they never cared enough to do so. Whatever donations they get tonight, he doubts it’ll be even a sliver of these idiots’ total assets back at their glamorous apartments or western-style mansions.

He’s resentful of them; of course he is, how could he not be? It was hard not to feel more than a tad resentful when he’d spent most of his life searching for his next meal out of trash cans, while these people wore suits and dresses with price tags that could’ve kept a family of six well-fed for an entire year.

But it wouldn’t do to let his resentment show now, of all times. So he doesn’t bother. Instead, ever the good-natured host, he continues to appeal to the good and charitable natures that he knows most of these people don’t have, feeling bored all the while.

…That is, until a certain someone catches his eye. Ouma keeps speaking, breaking up the monotony of his speech with a well-timed joke, but his eyes fix on a familiar figure in a dark, rather unadorned suit sidling up to the back of the crowd, pulling a hat down over his eyes as though trying to go as unnoticed as possible.

Well, well. Now there’s a guest he didn’t think he’d ever see at one of these functions again. It’s been a while since Mr. Detective came sniffing around, asking him questions. Maybe tonight’s function won’t be quite as boring as he thought.

“—with that being said, why don’t we go ahead and get started? Let’s make it a fun night to remember!”

He wraps up the rest of his speech to a round of insincere applause, and with an equally insincere wink of his own, he hops off the elevated stage and begins making his way through the crowd in search of that familiar figure. A few people try to start up a conversation as he passes, congratulating him on his speech or asking him to stick around until the main event begins, but he brushes them all aside easily, coming up with some excuse about wanting to get to the fresh sashimi platters before they all dry out.

He doesn’t even like sashimi, of course, but none of these people need to know that.

It doesn’t take long to track down the target of his interest: the detective is in the farthest back corner of the room, shrinking away from the crowd as much as he can manage. He seems to be trying to stay as far out of the way as possible, even more than the caterers—who were, by definition, _paid_ to serve food and stay out of the guests’ way.

Between the crowd of other people and the fact that he took the long way around to get here, it seems like he’s still gone unnoticed. Ouma decides to use that to his advantage and, feeling for the first time all evening as though he’s not forcing the grin on his face, he taps the young man on the shoulder.

“Y’know what would help, if you’re trying to go unnoticed? Lose the hat,” he says wisely.

“Uwah!”

The exaggerated reaction doesn’t betray his expectations: the detective jumps at the sudden touch on his shoulder, spins around, and in his haste, nearly stumbles sideways into the wall as he tries to regain his balance.

Ouma smiles all-too-innocently. “My, my, drunk already? Have you been hitting the champagne a little too hard, Saihara-chan? And so early in the evening, too!”

The young man flushes, his ears and cheeks burning in a way that Ouma knows has nothing to do with alcohol whatsoever. Then he fiddles with his off-center tie, as though subconsciously embarrassed by that too, and pulls the brim of his hat a little lower over his face as he finally, reluctantly addresses him. “I-I haven’t been drinking… though I think you already know that, since you looked at me when I came in.” He pauses, then averts his eyes again as he mumbles, “And _please_ don’t call me that.”

So he _did_ notice him watching when he first came in. That’s a pleasant surprise. But Ouma just feigns ignorance with a quizzical tilt of his head. “Call you what, your _name_? What else am I supposed to call you?” His eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you want me to start calling you on a first-name basis already? Wooow, naughty!”

“N-Not that! I meant the ‘-chan’ part!”

“Oh, come on. I call everyone that! What makes you so special?” Well, almost everyone. There were a few exceptions, rare though they might be. But Saihara-chan was much too fun to tease like this, so he definitely didn’t fit into that category.

The other man sighs wearily, looking suddenly, deeply exhausted. Ouma wonders how long he might’ve struggled in front of the mirror with those circles under his eyes. If he used any concealer to cover them up, then he clearly didn’t apply enough. Maybe he can throw him a bone—the carrot-and-stick approach only worked if there was ever actually any carrot, after all.

For a moment, he’s tempted to throw his arms behind his head; it’s his go-to gesture whenever he’s disappointed, or pulling someone’s leg. Or both. Then he remembers once again that he’s wearing a suit, as well as the fact that he has no idea whether such finely-tailored clothes are suited to casual, flippant gestures.

So instead, he looks away from the detective and examines the nails on one hand, as though suddenly bored. “Alright, fiiine. Sheesh, no need to look so depressed. I _guess_ I can always call you ‘Detective’ or something.”

“That… would be preferable, yeah.” Saihara-chan manages a weak smile, still looking deeply uncomfortable with the way their conversation was going.

That raised another question, of course: if he was so uncomfortable being here, talking to him, then why stop by in the first place? But he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer to that.

For a moment, Ouma lets the grin fall from his face, studying the detective with an intensity that seems to take his poor guest slightly aback. The ballroom isn’t silent; far from it, in fact, with the noise and chatter of so many people milling about. But it almost feels deserted in those long, few seconds where neither of them says anything.

…And then he’s all smiles again, hooking his arm firmly around Saihara-chan’s as he hears the first few strings of music beginning to warm up. “Come on then, Mr. Detective! Let’s get out of this musty old corner and out onto the dance floor.”

“D-Dance floor!?” The other man’s expression twists into a grimace that, after a few moments of deliberation, Ouma thinks might fall somewhere between flabbergasted and abjectly horrified. “Wait, w-wait a minute, I didn’t come here to, um, to dance. I-I just wanted to ask you a few questions, m-maybe, if that’s alr—”

Ouma cuts him off smoothly. “Of _course_ there’s a dance floor, silly—this is a ballroom! Actually, I think the whole place is a dance floor, technically.” He waves his free hand dismissively, still tugging insistently at the detective’s arm all the while. “What did you think people would be doing at a charity _dance_ function, anyway? Watching monster truck rallies?”

“I… I didn’t know… that it was a dance function…”

His ear-to-ear grin quickly becomes something more like a smirk at those words. “O-ho, interesting. So you’re the type of person who doesn’t really listen to what someone else is saying if it doesn’t interest you, huh Saihara-chan? Oops, sorry! I mean _Detective_ Saihara-chan.”

The detective tugs against his arm frantically, to no avail. “That’s not—I mean, I wasn’t… it’s not that I wasn’t listening! I-I just…”

“You ‘just’…?”

“I… assumed it was just a fundraising party. I didn’t think there’d be dancing involved,” he admits.

Ouma clicks his tongue, as though disappointed. “Well, that’s what you get for not reading the fine print on the invitation.”

“…I’m only here because my parents were invited. I came in their place, but I never got an invitation of my own.”

“Details!” He keeps his arm locked firmly in place with the other man’s as he begins slowly dragging them towards the center of the room, step by step; Saihara-chan follows about as willingly as a prisoner being led to the executioner’s block.

He tries for a few more steps, then stops abruptly, nearly throwing them both off-balance. Clearly they weren’t going to get anywhere if he didn’t throw just a little bit more carrot into this equation.

“Well fine, if you’re gonna be such a big baby about it, then why don’t I make it worth your while?” He taps a finger against his chin, and with a sly smile, he says, “How about, you dance with me—and in exchange, maybe I’ll answer a few of your questions.”

Ouma can see the gears turning in the detective’s head before he’s even finished the question; Saihara-chan’s eyes narrow, sifting through the pros and cons of his offer, weighing all the consequences and possible rewards.

“...Are you serious?” Saihara-chan asks.

“Who knows? I guess there’s only one way for you to find out, huh?”

There’s no way for the other man to know whether he’s lying or not, but that’s the whole point of this little trade: Saihara-chan couldn’t possibly hope to ask deeply personal questions about himself without giving him a little trust in return.

The detective closes his eyes in thought, and when he opens them again, Ouma already knows he’s going to cave. “Alright,” he says. “Okay. …But just _one_ dance, okay? Not any more than that.”

“Okay, sure!” He lies through his teeth, not meaning a word of it. “Ah, but before we start, there’s just one more thing!”

“Wh-What is it?”

With one swift motion, he snatches the hat off of Saihara-chan’s head with his free hand, tossing it behind him into the corner they just left. “You _really_ need to lose the hat,” he says flatly.

\---

As it turns out, Saihara-chan is a _horrible_ dancer.

The detective fumbles his way through most of their dance, all the while looking as though he’d like nothing more than to shrink into himself and disappear on the spot. By contrast, Ouma spends his time trying not to laugh, and dodging at just the right moments so that his feet don’t get stepped on. When the first song ends, he puts his hands firmly around the young man’s waist, making sure he can’t run off at the first opportunity.

“L-Let’s stop,” Saihara-chan says, unable to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. “It’s been one dance.”

“No way! You didn’t even ask me any questions!” Ouma lifts a hand from the other man’s waist and instead clasps one of the detective’s hands in his own. It would be an understatement to say that he was going to have to take the lead with all the dances from now on. “You should really get on that, by the way. If you want to know anything, you might as well ask it now, or else you might not get another chance!”

The detective’s face somehow manages to go even paler at that. “You didn’t say anything about having to ask _while_ we were dancing!”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve inferred! Anyway, that last one barely even counted as a dance. I mean come _on_, you owe it to me after attacking my feet like that.”

Saihara-chan grits his teeth, looking for all the world as though he might actually just walk out and leave the charity function after all, questions be damned. And that would certainly be a victory in its own way… but Ouma finds himself pleasantly surprised when the young man instead swallows his pride and nods, looking determined (albeit, a little bit queasy).

“Alright,” he says. “Fine. If that’s how you want to play this, then I’ll ask everything while we dance. But you _have_ to answer. No more dodging the question, or trying to get me off-topic.”

Ouma grins. How unexpectedly bold, from a man who looked as though this was the last place on earth that he wanted to be. “Okay, sure. Ask away then, Detective—as long as you can keep up.”

He doesn’t explicitly promise that everything he answers will be the truth… but he’s fairly sure that the detective must already know that, by now.

Saihara-chan’s hand is slick with sweat as another song starts up, but Ouma still holds onto it tightly, guiding him back, then forth, back, and sideways. The rhythm is slower this time, easier to keep up with, but there’s still a rush of energy underlying his movements as he leans in close, his mouth at the other man’s ear.

“Now’s your chance to ask me anything. Y’know, in case you need an engraved invitation.”

The detective stares uneasily past him, as though trying to tell whether anyone is paying them particularly close attention. But despite the occasional asking glances, no one seems too terribly curious. And even if they were—it’s not like they’re close enough to overhear anything, in any case.

Still looking slightly apprehensive, his dancing partner turns his attention back towards him. He nods slightly, and swallows once, hard. Then, in a voice almost too low for Ouma to catch, he asks, “Are you the Phantom Thief?”

He can’t help it; he almost laughs in the other man’s face. “Wow! You really came right out with it, huh?”

“Wh—! Y-You said I could ask you anything!” Saihara-chan goes a deep shade of red, and the sight is more pleasant than any glass of champagne he’s had all night.

Ouma snickers once or twice, but shakes his head apologetically, continuing their dance in a slow, wide circle. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just—wow, I didn’t think you’d _start_ with that, y’know?”

“Are you trying to dodge the question again…?”

“Not at all! Hmm, let’s see… am I the Phantom Thief…?” He repeats the question slowly, as though mulling the words over. “…I mean, I’d choose a different name if given the option, but sure! Why not? I guess it’s possible that I could be your very own Phantom Thief.”

Despite his best attempt to get another rise out of the detective with those words, instead his partner looks somewhat taken aback—as though he didn’t really expect him to play along with this little question-and-answer game. “So you’re just… admitting it, then? You’re the vigilante?”

The corners of his mouth twist upwards as he grasps the detective’s hand a little tighter. “I said I could be! Maybe. Perhaps.” He waits a beat. “Then again, you could be too, for all I know! How do I know _you’re_ not a wackjob who gets off to beating up criminals while wearing some weird costume?”

“…Because I have a photo of you, Ouma-kun.”

Those words come completely out of left field, and are delivered with such an uncharacteristic note of self-assuredness that Ouma actually pauses, leaning back just slightly to gauge the other man’s reaction. For once, Saihara-chan looks back at him without averting his eyes: a clear sign that he’s probably not lying.

Well, that was certainly unexpected. But it hardly meant the end of this little game that he was playing.

He blinks once or twice, then bounces back easily, smiling as though the expression never faltered even for a moment. “Why, Detective! I never expected you to just admit that you’re into voyeurism. I guess it suits you though, since you’re kind of a creep!”

“Ouma-kun, please—”

“—Or, maybe you didn’t actually sneak any photos of me yourself? Maybe you just paid someone else for them? …Y’know, I can’t actually decide if that’s better or worse.”

“Just listen to me…”

“I mean, first you tailed me at that auction event a few weeks ago like some stalker paparazzo, and now you show up again to tell me that you have compromising pictures of me? What, did you photoshop yourself in bed with me or something?”

“—_Please_ hear me out!”

Saihara-chan must have raised his voice a little more than he intended, because he looks dismayed as soon as the words leave his mouth. A few more people look their way, curious to see if they’re having a fight, but Ouma just smirks as though enjoying a joke that none of the rest of them are in on, and leans forward again, spinning them in a slow half-circle away from most of the prying eyes around them.

“Alright, I’m listening. But first, it’s _my_ turn to ask a question,” he says, mouthing the words just a few centimeters away from the detective’s ear. “…Why are you here?”

The more he talks with Saihara-chan, the less he understands. The less he understands, the more that one question weighs on him: if the detective supposedly has such hard evidence, why come tell him about first? Why not just hand it over to the police and end this little farce?

It just didn’t make any sense. He doesn’t understand the man in front of him.

His partner goes silent as he considers the question, and for a few moments there’s only the sound of the music in the room, carrying them through all the steps of this little play-pretend dance that they’re sharing.

Then, even that quiets, and they amble to a gentle stop in the pause between one song and the next.

“…I don’t know,” Saihara-chan finally admits. “I-I’m really not sure… what’s right anymore. That’s why, if it _is_ you… I’d like to know why you’re doing it.”

Ouma narrows his eyes. “_Why_ I’m doing it? What, you don’t think I’m just some nutjob in a suit?”

“No, I don’t. The Phantom Thief doesn’t kill people—they try to stop the sort of crimes that the police don’t pay much attention to. That doesn’t sound like the work of a crazy person to me. So I thought… there must be a reason for it.”

Interesting. How wonderfully interesting. Every time he thinks he comes one step closer to figuring out the way this detective’s mind works, the next words out of Saihara-chan’s mouth always take him two steps back. Like a perpetual chase between a thief and a detective. Or maybe, like a dance between two people who can’t quite settle into each other’s rhythm.

The music starts up again, a little faster than before, and Ouma makes up his mind as he takes both of Saihara-chan’s hands this time, twirling until he’s facing the same direction as the other man, his back barely brushing against the other man’s chest.

“Ah—eh!? O-Ouma-kun?”

Ouma tilts his head just slightly to the side as he grins up at his poor, unsuspecting dance partner. Or perhaps “partner-in-crime” might be a more apt description for him now—he’d have to think that one over. “Don’t you ever just do something because it’s fun?” he asks.

“Wh-What?”

“Y’know, spontaneity. Variety. Don’t you just get the urge to do stuff on a whim, sometimes?”

“Not… not really.”

His grin stretches until it’s a little wider. And cheekier. “Oh, I think you do. You seem like kind of a party-crasher if you ask me.”

The detective winces. “Gee, thanks.”

“Anyway, that’s my point, Detective. Why does anyone do anything?” He squeezes his partner’s hand for emphasis, then spins away to face him again. “Because it’s _fun_.”

It’s a fraction of the truth buried within a thousand lies he’ll never tell him, but it’s true all the same. He sees the slow dawning of realization on the other man’s face, the gradual understanding that this time, at least, he meant every word he said.

“You want it to be me, don’t you? It _could_ be some weirdo on the street, but you’d feel a hell of a lot better if your little theory was right.”

Silence. The detective doesn’t respond, although he seems even clumsier than usual as they dance their way through the next song, as though those words hit a little closer to home than he’d like to admit.

“You want to _help_ me, don’t you? That’s why you came here tonight.”

More silence. Ouma takes it as a reluctant affirmation.

Now _that’s_ a fun idea: a detective-gone-rogue who’s secretly helping him for the sake of his so-called morals or whatever, feeding false information to the rest of the police all the while. It sounds like some twist right out of a comic book.

They finish up another dance. And another, and another still after that. By the time the music ends and the function begins to draw to a close, his partner’s hands are so sweaty that Ouma has no choice but to try wiping the streaks of sweat off on the lapels of the other man’s suit (hey, his own suit was _white_ after all, and he didn’t want to leave stains).

Saihara-chan gives him a tired look but otherwise doesn’t protest as he tries to catch his breath, his knees wobbling a little from what was probably a combination of nerves and the sheer amount of dancing they just did.

He still didn’t run off, though. Or turn him in. And that was commendable, in its own way.

“Y’know,” Ouma says, tapping a finger against the corner of his mouth thoughtfully, “you should stick around tonight. Seeing as we have so much to talk about.”

That gets the detective’s attention. He stops wheezing long enough to throw him a confused, nervous look. He probably understands that there’s a deeper implication behind those words… but he still seems nervous, nonetheless. “…People might talk, i-if I don’t go home tonight.”

Ouma can’t help but roll his eyes. “Oh, people are already talking. In case you failed to notice, I didn’t dance with anyone except you the whole time. That’s already worth talking about.”

If anyone had snuck in a camera, there would probably be photos of them dancing all over tomorrow’s news. One or two dances with a random guy wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for someone like Ouma Kokichi. An entire _night_ of dancing, however, could only lead people to believe that this was a fling.

And it was. Of a sort. Well, he’d rather let the tabloids have their own field day with it. Maybe if he was lucky, they’d try to spin it into some sort of love triangle with Togami-chan—that might actually be worth cutting out and hanging on his fridge, for a good laugh.

Saihara-chan looks mortified by the thought, though, almost visibly shrinking at the possibility of being so thoroughly in the spotlight. “I-I didn’t realize… I didn’t think that’s the sort of conclusion people would, um…”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to my life.” He gives the detective a sarcastic pat on the back. “It’s not all bad, though.”

Saihara-chan quirks a skeptical eyebrow, still looking more than a little uneasy.

“It’s not! I pinky-promise, see?” He crosses his pinky finger over the breast pocket of his suit for emphasis.

“…That’s not a pinky-promise,” Saihara-chan points out.

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes a second time. “Wow, you’re kind of nitpicky, aren’t you? Whatever.” He waves a hand impatiently. “Anyway, there’s exactly one huge perk to my line of work, which I’ll be happy to let you in on, once everyone else is gone.”

“…And that is…?”

Ouma grins. “Lots and lots of toys.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually a lot of fun to write. I had the idea stuck in my head for a while now, but it's always one of those things I wasn't sure I would ever get around to. So I'm glad I could at least write a oneshot for this AU!
> 
> I feel like vigilante AUs have way more potential than anyone gives them credit for, especially when it comes to saiouma. I mean, Ouma has a literal Batmobile in his research lab. Said lab looks like the Batcave. The kid's a certified comic book nerd.
> 
> And Saihara's not any better—a detective who's hot on the heels of a phantom thief-styled vigilante is right up his alley.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this fic, as well as the art that it's based on! As always, I appreciate all the comments and support you guys have thrown my way!
> 
> (And I promise, I really am still working on that next chapter of Reaching.)


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